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Old -Fashioned Verses 




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OLD-FASHIONED VERSES 

By 

WILLIAM T. HORNADAY 



"E'en though thy muse aspire to viewless heights, 
Strain not thy pinions in too lofty flights. 
Remember, ere thy thought is given birth, 
The man who reads it dwells upon the earth." 

— Ode to a Poet. 



CLARK & FRITTS, NEW YORK 
MDCCCCXIX 



■YfJ 






^'i^^ 



Copyright, 1919 
By William T. Hornaday 



Any newspaper may copy any half dozen of 

these poems, but their reproduction in 

books must be by arrangement 

with the author. 



AUG 26 1919 



^^ 



aCi.A530624 



Ar 



SUBSCRIPTION EDITION 

This edition is limited to three hundred copies; and 

this is Number Inscribed by the author 

for 



INVOCATION 

Here, all alone in the forest ivide, 
I'll build me a comrade fire, 

Hoping its gleams will lead to my side 
The friends of my heart's desire. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

the war and the aftermath. 

Belgium 3 

The Lion Calls His Cubs 5 

The Greatest Sea Drama 8 

The Avenging of Craddock 9 

Act I — The Tragedy. 

Between the Acts. 

Act II — The Comedy. 

The Girls of Lille 13 

America Unleashed 15 

The War's Alphabet 19 

The Giant of the Sea 21 

If They Could Know 23 

In Russia 25 

The Great Divide 27 

The Gardens of Hate 29 

The Consumer 31 

New Standards 33 

the wild west. 

The Spell of the Mountains 37 

The Papago Tank 39 

The Reflections of Cheyenne Jim 41 

The Line-Riders 43 

The Gameless West 47 

His Golden Days 49 

The Sonoran Desert 53 

The Camp-Fire Song 55 



Contents (continued) 

PAGE 

wild life. 

The Cragmaster 59 

The Rocky Mountain Sheep 61 

His Home. 

His Neighbors. 

His Fate. 

The Fate of the Birds 65 

Robbed 67 

When the Birds Went Away 69 

The Robin 71 

The Mammoth Tells His Story 73 

The Lava Ram 79 

friendship and love. 

Before Her Portrait 83 

The Operation 85 

Lines to a Lady 86 

To G. B. G 87 

To H. R. H 88 

Adieu to Skibo Castle 89 

The Forget-Me-Not 90 

Her Treasure Ship 91 

The Comrade Fire 93 

nonsense verses. 

On the Menu Card 99 

The Talking Doll 101 

Coming Home from Europe 103 

The Gift Horse 105 

innominata. 

A Salaam to an Author 109 

Back to Borneo Ill 

The Whispering Pine 113 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR Frontispiece 

THE ENSLAVEMENT OF BELGIUM Facing Page 3 

THE SPELL OF THE MOUNTAINS " " 37 

THE SONORAN DESERT " " 53 

THE CRAGMASTER " " 59 

THE LAVA RAM " " 79 

THE COMRADE FIRE " " 93 

BACK TO BORNEO " " 111 



WAR AND THE AFTERMATH 




L,fr I'Nh. Co. 



THE ENSLAVEMENT OF BELGIUM 

"Until earth's final sun has set, 
This fickle world shall not forget 
The Price [that Belgium paid." 



BELGIUM 

^<HE summer sun on Belgium shone, 
^^ A land most fair to see. 
Soft hummed the wheels of joyous life, 
No sign was there of war or strife. 
And all the land was free. 



To Belgium's calm and pleasant land 

A Hun gorilla stalked. 
A club engaged one hairy hand, 
The other swayed a blazing brand ; 
The earth reeked where he walked. 



All Belgium's men rushed forth to meet 

The monster on the plain. 
The pygmy dared the giant's wrath, 
And bravely blocked his reeking path, 

To halt him, or be slain. 



The monster wrecked that peaceful land, 

— Black curses on him be! — 
He burned and slew, in brutal wrath, 
He clove a wide and bloody path 
From Louvain to the sea. 



Oh, Belgium ! Small, but great of heart, 

Thy courage was divine. 
Oh, Belgium ! Bled at every vein, 
May this world never see again 

Such Sacrifice as thine. 



On Freedom's altar blazing high 

Thy treasures all were laid. 
Until earth's final sun has set, 
This fickle world shall not forget 
The Price that Belgium paid. 



THE LION CALLS HIS CUBS 

A Lion lay sleeping alone by the sea; 

No anger pervaded his somnolent jaivs. 
His long golden frontlet tvas fanned by the breeze, 

And in peace and contentment he slept on his paws. 
All his cubs save the youngest ivere 7^oaming afar, 

Wherever the four ivinds of heaven are loose. 
The old Lion slept, never dreaming of war, 

And his mighty left arm had grown weak from disuse, 



nARK! What roar is that, now bursting, on the si- 
lence of the dawn? 
Sounds like imps and furies, fighting ! Savage beasts are 



coming on 



Hordes are rushing to destroy him, wind and limb, ere 

set of sun. 
It's the mad bulls and the wolf packs, from the forests 

of the Hun. 

Quick upsprang the sleeping Lion, rushed to grapple with 

his foes. 
And full half of them were scattered by the fury of his 

blows ; 
But the others closed around him in interminable ranks. 
Fiercely striving, madly driving at his unprotected flanks. 

Then the monarch paused a moment and sent forth a 

mighty roar. 
Such far-sounding call to battle he had never sent before. 
Piercing skyward, pealing earthward, swept afar by 

ocean's breeze. 
It resounded and rebounded, clear across the seven seas. 



Wheresoever lions wandered, from the farthest ends of 

earth, 
It recalled the cubs for battle to the dam that gave them 

birth. 
That resounding roar aroused them from their toil and 

at their play, 
And their answer is engraven till the final Judgment Day. 



First from high and low in England sprang the vanguard 

of the fray. 
And its blood poured out like water that is spilled and 

runs away. 
From the Scot's land and from Erin hurried forth an 

angry host. 
And upon my soul, without them might the battle have 

been lost. 



From the Ottawa and Yukon to Newfoundland's icy 

shore. 
From the Kalahari Desert to hot steaming Singapore, 
From Nairobi to the Niger, from the Cape to Callao, 
Lion whelps by armies gathered and rushed home to tear 

the foe. 



In the farthest southern ocean, lo! what miracles were 

wrought ! 
Far Australia and New Zealand full the Lion's spirit 

caught. 
From the plains and from the mountains, farm and mine 

and hut and town. 
Angry hordes of gallant Anzacs swarmed the roads and 

hurried down. 



But in India, my hearties, was the greatest wonder seen. 

Where the Potsdam leper counted on "revolt" to inter- 
vene. 

There the cubs of brief adoption wildly rushed to offer 
aid. 

At the feet of their protector were their lives and for- 
tunes laid. 



Sure the world ne'er saw aught like it, this great onrush 

of his sons, 
To support the British Lion in his battle with the Huns. 
British liberty and justice to the races of the earth 
Brought forth parti-colored millions from the lands that 

gave them birth. 

In support of British Empire came a hundred races hence, 
To uphold their flag of freedom, or to die in its defense ; 
And this spectacle stupendous men will note with awe 

and wonder, 
While the empires of the despots are cast down and torn 

asunder. 



THE GREATEST SEA DRAMA 

rUE ivar produced many sea dramas; the most of them 
terribly tragic, a vei^y few grimly humorous. Viewed 
purely as a theatrical composition, by far the greatest sea 
drama of the ivar ivas the tivo-act piece played by Crad- 
dock, Spec and Sturdee in the southern ocean, in Decem- 
ber, 1914, and January, 1915. The first act was set in 
Imlf a gale, on the stormy ivaters of the Pacific, oppo- 
site Coronel, off the coast of Chile. The second act was 
on calm and sunlit ivaters, in the South Atlantic, off Pata- 
gonia, ivith the Falkland Islands as the ynost important 
set piece of stage property. 

The first act was a plain tragedy. The second was a 
battle so sudden, so calm and yet so siueepingly complete 
that as sea ivarfare goes, it ivas grimly ludicrous. 

The battle of Jutland ivas a far gi^eater event, but as 
a drama it was hopeless. It was a confusing maze of 
fleet and squadron movements, and even with a good map 
before you, the longer one studies the motif of the British 
fleet and the resultant action, the less one understands it 
all. At first the results were so obscure that the Huns 
loudly proclaimed a great "victory." On paper they al- 
most got away with it, partly owing to the excessive and 
at tiraes painfid modesty of the British. 

The bottling up of Zeebmgge was a superbly dramatic 
composition, but it was played on a dark stage, and the 
most of its effects thereby were lost. 



THE AVENGING OF CRADDOCK 
A Tale from the "Glasgow." 

Act I. The Tragedy. 

^^FF Chile's shore, my lads, the sea ran high, 

And night was falling with an angry sky. 
'Twas bitter cold that day, and you well know 
How hard it is to shoot when tempests blow. 



Up from the south came Craddock's tiny fleet, — 
Too small, my lads, for what it had to meet. 
The Monmouth and the Good Hope were his best, 
And light old Canopus was farther west. 



Down from the north came steaming Speck von Spee, 
Against the land, all snug and running free. 
You couldn't see them, lads, through all that murk 
Save when their blooming guns flashed at their work. 



Craddock ought not have tackled Spee that night; 
But when a British fleet is out to fight 
There's no such thing as going on the blink. 
Guns or no guns, it's fight and win, or sink ! 



The Scharnhorst surely had some awful guns, 
And those chaps shot amazing well for Huns. 

9 



They held the record for the high seas' fleet, 
And from the first they had poor Craddock beat. 

Our ships were silhouetted on the sky; 

The German's range was easy ; that is why 

The Huns achieved so many bloody hits, 

And Monmouth and Good Hope were shot to bits. 



Hulled scores of times, on fire and piled with dead. 
Through shot holes in their sides the fire showed red. 
The Good Hope and poor Craddock soon went down, 
And Spee, the swine, left every man to drown. 

The cruiser Glasgow? Yes, she got away, 
Her lack of armor saved her from the fray. 
The Monmouth? Never heard of. Not a spark! 
She just limped off and foundered in the dark. 



BETWEEN THE ACTS. 

When the curtain rang down on Craddock, it was Sturdee 
that got his cue, 

And before the clock had twice gone 'round the stage was 
set aneiv. 

From England out to the Falklands, far doivn in the 
southern sea, 

Some real ships rushed southward to mop up Speck von 
Spee. 

10 



Act II. The Comedy. 

Flooded with morning sunshine, rising sheer and steep, 
The western front of the Falklands looked helpless and 

half asleep, 
At the mercy of any rover while sitting still in the sun. 
While down from the north came a hostile fleet, flushed 

with a battle won. 



Speck von Spee came sailing, a happy smile on his face, 
Looking for easy conquests and an air-tight naval base. 
Port Stanley looked so helpless, the Falklands looked so 

mild, 
To the Hun it seemed like the taking of candy from a 

child. 



As the Scharnhorst opened the harbor's mouth, "Main 

Gott !" cried Speck von Spee, 
"Mein Gott and donnerwetter ! Whateff er do I see ! 
How ever did they get hier? Their ships are equal to 

mine! 
I'm tricked into equal fighting by the verdammt English 

swine." 
One look he gave at Invincible, at Inflexible once looked 

he; 
As he saw he was sold, his feet grew cold, and he fled 

for the open sea. 



No; it wasn't "luck" at all, my lads, that eighteen hours 

before 
The Sturdee fleet had butted in on the Falklands rocky 

shore. 

11 



It was British navy get-there that drove those vessels 

south, 
But it sure tvas luck that brought von Spee straight into 

the hon's mouth. 



Out came the ships of Sturdee, as calm as a summer sea, 
And sailed along politely with the fleet of Speck von Spee. 
There was not a bit of excitement, no hurry or flurry at 

all. 
And they piped all hands to dinner before they opened 

the ball. 



The thing that pleased the gunners, the thing that set 

things right 
Was the everlasting assurance it would be an even fight. 
An even fight with the British, hammering gun for gun, 
Always was gall and wormwood to the craven heart of 

the Hun. 

Like ten-pins in a row, my lads, six ships were lost by 

Spee, 
And only the Dresden got away to tell that tale of the 

sea. 
Who? Sturdee? Never a one lost he. For him the fight 

was mild. 
'Twas him that took the candy from the hand of the 

bloomin' child. 



12 



THE GIRLS OF LILLE 



^<HE lurid war-clouds backward roll; 
^^ Slow Peace has come at last. 
Be not a coward, O my soul, 
In dealing with the Past. 



The wounds of Belgium and France 
Are raw and bleeding yet. 
The Hun makes "kamerad" advance, 
And begs us to forget. 



The tale of German horrors done 
Shall be engraved on steel. 

Each year we'll reckon, one by one, 
The stolen girls of Lille. 



Doomed to a fate I may not tell. 

And shrieking led away, 
The girls of Lille went forth to hell, 

Five thousand in a day. 



Ask not their fate. The die is cast. 

Not one was heard of more. 
God's judgment shall avenge the past. 

But the heart of France is sore. 



13 



Not while the world is turning yet, 
And human hearts can feel, 

Will we condone or once forget 
The vanished girls of Lille. 



14 



AMERICA UNLEASHED 



HOR months and years the guns boomed forth the fear- 
some voice of war, 
And the smoke of deadly battles rolled to heaven — from 

afar. 
The Hun was loose for conquest, for loot and rule by 

Might, 
And the Allies strove against him for Man's inherent 
Right. 



For three long years of slaughter the Teuton clock went 

'round, 
And the blood of murdered nations cried to heaven from 

the ground. 
America, fast fettered, stood chafing, straining, dumb. 
While she drank her cup of horrors from Teuton torch 

and bomb. 

The Allies in the trenches to Columbia looked in vain. 
Our country spelled neutrality, and dragged a ball and 

chain. 
"How long, Lord," our fighters cried, with eyes across 

the sea, 
"Will the Huns in France and Flanders be held immune 

to me?" 

The world beheld and wondered, and men's cheeks flushed 

with shame. 
Like the glow of burning churches whose towers are 

licked by flame. 
Our land of law and justice, where Freedom's torch still 

burned. 
Stood neutral, bound and passive, insulted, bullied, 

spurned. 

15 



But at last the nightmare ended. At last the giant woke, 
And freedom forged her weapons for a quick and heavy 

stroke. 
Now, aye beware the fury of him that's slow to wrath. 
Take heed of his intentions ; if wrong, keep out his path. 



The boy rose from his daily bread, and faced his Uncle 

Sam. 
The kind old eyes looked into his; he swiftly raised his 

palm. 
In solemn tones the Old Man said, "I need you now, my 

son !" 
"I'm ready, Chief," the soldier cried, "Hand out my pack 

and gun!" 



The navy lay ready and waiting the word that would set 

it free, 
And the moment the leash was unfastened those bulldogs 

and hounds of the sea 
Rushed straight to the region of warfare, to dare all the 

dangers afloat. 
And they covered the Service with glory while holding 

the Hun by the throat. 

The news was flashed through the ocean, it spread 

throughout England and France, 
It electrified London and Paris, it stiffened the Allies' 

advance. 
It swept through the trenches and hangars, it thrilled the 

wires far and wide; 
Men paused at their cannon and barkened. "The Yanks 

are coming!" they cried. 

16 



Unleashed were America's millions ! Flamed up the fires 
of her men ! 

Young women, too, put on the khaki, the old became 
active again. 

The rich rushed to join the colors, the poor swiftly an- 
swered the call; 

The stay-at-homes shouldered their burdens, and Service 
then equalized all. 

Like a lake that has burst its embankment and sweeps 

the whole world from its path. 
So America drove to the conflict, seething with vigor and 

wrath. 
The nation let loose from its fetters rushed to the battle 

of guns, 
Straight to the heart of the conflict, crazy to conquer the 

Huns. 



Hot were the fires of the forges, loud roared the ham- 
mers and wheels; 

With clanging and banging the cannon rolled outward 
with shells at their heels. 

Two millions of toilers wrought sweating to back up The 
Boys far away, 

And rivers of dollars fiowed outward, to wash out the 
sins of delay. 

All silent and darkened, the troop-ships sped outward 

and over the seas. 
An ominous, endless procession, swarming with militant 

bees. 
And up from the sea to the trenches went flowing great 

rivers of men, 
Husky, reliant and deadly as ever their foeman may ken. 

17 



For mile after mile rolled the cannon, by motor, by rail 
and by horse ; 

Choked were the roads with processions of endless sup- 
plies for The Force. 

Driving like mad for the trenches, swearing at halt and 
delay, 

America's forces swept onward, straight to the heart of 
the fray. 

Now shout for the brave of Thierry; with the men of 

Belleau you may dance, 
For smashed was the spear-head that pointed so straight 

at the vitals of France. 
Yes, read all you like of the Argonne, and how it was 

cleared of the Hun, 
But never can History grasp it, nor comprehend how it 

was done. 

And then, after four years of waiting that damnable sal- 
ient fell. 

Like a cyclone the Yanks swept before them the Teuton 
imps out of Mihiel. 

And the Hindenburg line in Picardy, a-running its inso- 
lent course, 

Got a smash that will last it forever, from the Yanks of 
the Overseas Force. 

Here's a toast to the men of our Army. As fine as the 

finest are they! 
Here's a health to the men of our Navy, — ^the first to get 

into the fray. 
To our Airmen we wave admiration ; their part they did 

bravely and well. 
And on Congress we serve an injunction to keep all the 

Huns in their hell. 

18 



THE WAR'S ALPHABET* 



A is an Airplane, speedy and light, 
B is a Battleship ready to fight. 

C is a Cannon, a very large gun, 
D is a Dugout, made by a Hun. 

E is an Ensign at a great height, 

F is our Flag, for which we will fight. 

G is for Gas mask, a good thing in war, 
H is the Hun whom all men abhor. 

I is for Italy, an ally so brave, 

J is for war Junk, worthless to save. 

K is a King of noble repute, 

L stands with Vandals for nothing but Loot. 

M is a Monitor, low in the sea, 
N is a Newspaper, precious to me. 

O is the Ocean where battleships fight, 
P is a Periscope taking a sight. 

Q is a Queen who played a brave part, 
R is a Russian, with a sad heart. 

S is a Soldier brave, rifle in hand, 
T is for Tank, a terror on land. 



*This is intended to serve as the basis of an exercise for children, 
in selecting and cutting out pictures appropriate to the letters, and 
pasting them in a scrap-book, with the letters at the tops of the pages. 
It is permissible for the advice of adults to be taken on the most 
difficult letters, such as K and Q. 



19 



U is a U-boat, under the waves, 

V is a Vandal, most wicked of knaves. 

W is a Watch on a soldier boy's Wrist, 
X is an X-Ray to find what is missed. 

Y is a Yank, and a jolly good man, 
Z is a Zeppelin that kills all it can. 



20 



THE GIANT OF THE SEA 

To England, from Liberty Street, December 7, 1918. 

C^ESIDE the sea a Giant stands 

"^^ With dented shield, but stainless hands. 

His wounds are sore, but unafraid 

He grasps his full victorious blade. 

And gazes out upon the sea 

To welcome Peace and Victory. 



Across the North Sea's stormy breast 
A mighty column, steaming west. 
With vulture ensigns waving high 
Now darkly looms against the sky. 
The high seas fleet of beaten Hun, 
Whose craven race is fully run. 
Comes forth, at last, from hiding-place, 
To meet his "Tag," full face to face. 



Since first the flight of Time began. 
Since first wild beasts made war on man, 
Since first old ocean rolled afar. 
No man e'er saw such end of war ! 
Beat down at sea by England's fight. 
Beat up on land by Allied might. 
The foe of freedom went to smash, 
With sudden and resounding crash. 
The world, amazed, stood still to view 
The Hun blow up, so high he blew. 



21 



The Giant stood beside the sea 
That British power had rendered free, 
And saw in crushing victory 
The fightless warships of the Hun 
Delivered without sound of gun. 
Mile after mile of ships afar, — 
By courtesy called ships of "war," — 
Swam into range of allied guns. 
And, silent all, the craven Huns 
With joy ran down their vulture flags, 
Glad to yield up those useless rags. 
Glad to escape on that dread sea 
Another Jutland victory. 

Great honor unto Britain be. 
Whose gallant heroes held the sea 
For weary weeks and months and years, 
In silence grim, devoid of fears. 
Determined that the end should show 
A beaten and well punished foe. 

Slack not, Ally, at the last 
In taking vengeance for the Past. 
Take eye for eye and tooth for tooth. 
And give the Hun his own dread ruth. 
That, only can he understand, 
And take to heart from out your hand. 
Maintain your Navy's guarantee 
Of world-wide freedom of the sea. 
The Hun is now your deadly foe ; 
When he can strike, beware the blow. 
Beware that false and brutal horde. 
Henceforward, never sheathe thy sword! 



22 



IF THEY COULD KNOW 
To the Allies' Dead, November 22, 1918. 

^IT^ God would give that They might know, 
"^ In rugged trench and storm-beat sea 
The downfall of the beaten foe, 
The joy of sweeping Victory, 

— They'd sleep in peace, if They could know. 



Brave hearts in shades of blue and brown, 
To balk the Hun on land and sea 

Risked life and all, went bravely down 
That Home and Country might be free. 

— If They could know, how glad They'd be! 



Could They have seen that craven fleet, 
Brave Craddock's men could reason why. 

Could They have seen that Hun retreat, 
The Allies' dead would peaceful lie. 

God, make Them know the Victory! 



23 



IN RUSSIA 

HDIEU to aristocracy of Mind. 
To genius we bid a sad farewell. 
Behold ! The sodden mass of humankind 

Seizes the steering wheel and rings the bell. 



The ship of state glides backward at full speed, 
With chart and compass flung far overside. 

The wheel is held by Ignorance and Greed, 
The steersmen all defy both wind and tide. 



Mind matters not. They only pause to count 
The stupid units of the human race. 

Two dolts outvote one sermon on the mount, 
Two apes can vote one angel from his place. 



The masses rule, that never ruled before; 

An empire's fate the toy of rustic fools. 
Chaos and Famine sit within the door. 

Intelligence, dethroned, no longer rules. 



Down with all thrift, experience and brains. 

Up with the rule of cattle from the fields. 
Down with your fortune while one coin remains ; 

On with the chaos sceptred Folly yields. 



Woe to the land engulfed by wicked fools ; 

Pity the people floundering in lies. 
Woe to the land where beastlike Muscle rules. 

Pity the masses who destroy the Wise. 



25 



Oh, Russia! Will thy sorrows never cease? 

Will Reason once again regain her throne? 
Will blood and famine ever lead to peace? 

When will the Russians come unto their own? 



26 



THE GREAT DIVIDE 

(OMETHING for nothing! They shall not pass!' 
The high-browed Socialist cried. 
"Down with the capitalistic class! 
Up with the raw proletariat mass ! 
Hurrah for the great divide !" 

"Something for nothing !" The Anarchist came 

Fresh from the other side. 
Alien in heart and alien in name, 
Bankrupt in gratitude, sense and shame, 

He shrieks for the great divide. 

"Something for nothing! No work, high pay!" 

The I. W. W. decide. 
"Welcome the dawn of our sabotage day. 
Unless you are given your sovereign way. 
Destroy the machine, and set fire to the hay ! 

Hurrah for the great divide!" 

"Something for nothing," the Bolsheviks yell, 

Sweeping all order aside. 
"Give us your lands and your goods as well, 
Your all, or we'll send your souls to hell ! 

Now cometh the great divide." 



In Russia a wife of the great divide 
Stands dazedly counting her dead. 

Before her a barren grain-field lies; 

Beyond her the smokeless factories rise ; 

Beside her the voice of Famine cries, 
"Hurrah for a crust of bread !" 



27 



THE GARDENS OF HATE 

g FRIEND of mine owns a queer garden; 
His work in it never is done. 
While it may look as old as the mountains, 

It is something new under the sun. 
Its plants all are tough and enduring; 

Its flowers bloom early and late; 
And because of the way it's maturing, 
I call it a Garden of Hate. 



Come in, and I'll show you the posies; 

I often walk in here alone. 
You will know many beds without asking ; 

Perhaps you have some of your own. 



The first one you see is the Torch-Flower. 

It looks like red flame, does it not? 
In Belgium and France 'twas abundant; 

It grew around palace and cot. 
And here is a new kind of Blood-Bush. 

It springs where an innocent dies. 
The plant was developed at Roubaix 

Where a crucified girl lost her eyes. 



Now this is the Bayonet Flower, 

Quite shaped like a sword, as you see. 

Suggesting maltreated French children. 
And Hun soldiers out on a spree. 



This Bomb-Flower developed in London, 
But sprang up in hospitals since. 



39 



I think of the nurses and wounded. 

You are English? No wonder you wince. 
Yonder blossom with long-streaming petals 

So white and so pale, waving free, 
Is the Submarine Beauty of Tirpitz, 

Recalling the dead of the sea. 



These roots are all German productions. 

And they never will die or decay. 
Right here they will rotate and prosper 

Till the dawn of God's ultimate Day. 
There are millions of gardens like this one. 

That stand for the logic of Fate. 
The Huns hang their heads when they pass them, 

For they made the Gardens of Hate. 



30 



THE CONSUMER 

OH, I'm a bold consumer man ; 
I work just for my health. 
I toil and pay as best I can, 
To swell the nation's wealth. 



I dearly love the profiteer, 
Who holds the inside track. 

He marks his goods up twice a year, 
And rides upon my back. 



My landlord grieves when Boss forgets 

To raise my monthly pelf, 
And so to soothe my vain regrets 

He raises me himself. 



The coal man is to me most dear, 
To him I'm like a son. 

I help him make a million clear 
By paying twelve a ton. 



The farmer "fights" with costly meat, 
And sky-high wheat and corn. 

His table groans with things to eat. 
While mine looks some forlorn. 



The shipyard man gets eight per day. 
The miner gets much more. 

The railroad man gets double pay, 
And all I get is sore. 



31 



I'm rushed for bonds three times a year, 

Red Cross and K. of C, 
Y. M. C. A. and Christmas "cheer," 

— They one and all strike me. 

I wonder if the day will come, 

Ere I'm laid on the shelf. 
When I can have one little sum 

To spend upon — myself! 



32 



NEW STANDARDS 

I^HE hurricane of war has passed; its millions have 

^^ been spent. 

In millions lie its victims "in one red burial blent." 

The world has seen another flood, of flame and blood and 

tears, 
And Lasting Peace has come, at last, — to "last" for fifteen 

years ! 

Amid the ruins of the Past, new standards have been set, 
New similes have been struck off that men will not 

forget. 
This coinage of a wicked war will pass from hand to 

hand. 
And some thereof will hold their place, long as the world 

may stand. 

For Example: 

Men will say when a pace is in question, 

"As swift as a Yankee advance." 
And when greatness stands up to be measured, 

'Twill be "Great as the glory of France." 

When losers whine loudest we'll taunt them, — 
"You squeal like the Huns in defeat." 

And of fighters who shrink from a combat 
Say, "they hide like the big German fleet." 

When wisdom is up for inspection, 
It's "bright as the genius of Foch"; 

But when Crime is in line for detection 
It is "black as the heart of a boche." 

When zeal looks about for a measure, 

It's "keen as a war-hungry Yank." 
But when Fear is beset by its foemen, 

It "runs like a Hun from a tank." 

33 



Of all people deadly destructive, 
Who mark out the wickedest way, 

The Bolsheviks stand, unproductive, 
And "deadly as cobras" are they. 

When rascals are flouting our country. 
And Treason is swift on the draw. 

We think of the sloths of the tropics, 
— "As slow as American law." 

When Tommy is wrapped up in cotton. 
And treats all his wounds as a joke, 

But he feels that his luck has been "rotten,' 
What's as "sweet as a nurse with a smoke?" 

Whenever men seek for a measure 
Of treachery, cunning and greed, 

They will call it with justice and pleasure 
"As crooked as Germany's creed." 

No more will "a rock" be called "solid"; 

There's a living example instead. 
The world now will say, with precision, 

"As solid as Ludendorff's head." 

Our peace must be clear as the sunlight, 

As firm as Eternal commands; 
As true as a 14-inch gunsight, 

And as clean as America's hands. 

As the war has unsettled our peace, 

So the new has ejected the old; 
And war standards aye will increase 

As long as war stories are told. 

34 



THE WILD WEST 



THE SPELL OF THE MOUNTAINS 

OH, puny Man, wouldst thou atone 
For years of swelling ego heart? 
Go tread the mountain-top alone 
And learn how very small thou art. 



With fainting limbs and gasping breath 
Go climb the slide-rock rough and steep. 

Go, risk the downward plunge to Death, 
And pray the Lord thy soul to keep. 



Toil to the top of cloud-kissed peak 
And see vast seas of mountains roll. 

Then feel great things thou canst not speak 
Because of smallness of the soul. 



Here in the workshop of The Sun, 
Where Nature hews and chips recoil, 

Note well the things designed, or done; 
Behold the mountains at their toil. 



Go, stand upon the canyon's rim 
And gaze far down the dark abyss. 

Blink at the scroll of ages dim, 
And ask thy neighbor, "What is this?" 

What is thy story of man's ways 
Beside the records they unfold! 

What is thy tiny span of days 
Beside the Ages here unrolled ! 

37 



Great God, forgive Thy tiny sons 
For all their swollen ego hearts, 

Regard them as Thy little ones, 
And help them play their puny parts. 



38 



THE PAPAGO TANK 

XT was night when we limped to the Papago Tank, 
Over the lava, dull black and all rough. 
"Water ! ! Thank GOD ! !" Then we drank and we drank. 
Never, it seemed, could we drink quite enough. 

Beside us our horses unbidden rushed in, 

Famished, but game to the last. 
The way we had pushed them that day was a sin, 

Hungry and footsore, but traveling fast. 



That water was clear, sir, as ever was seen, 

As pure as the water from snows. 
Remarkably cool for a lava-walled pool ; 

How it had kept so, the Lord only knows. 

By an effort Titanic, in rock hard as steel, 

The Papago Tank had been drilled. 
An arroyo came down through the lava's black field 

To a well by a kind heaven filled. 

And why do I often hark back to the Lord ? 

That is something you won't understand. 
But here let me give you a wanderer's word : 

In the dese7'ts, take hold of His Hand! 



39 



THE REFLECTIONS OF CHEYENNE JIM 

(A-riding up to the Big Dry.) 

THE BAD LANDS. 

^< HESE ain't such awful Bad Lands to them that knows 
^-^ 'em well. 

It's the barbed wire of the grangers that shorely gives us 
hell. 

LONELINESS. 

It ain't the rides, nor the bitter cold, nor the bunk in a 

gloomy den. 
It's the lonesomeness that grips your heart, for the sight 

of women again. 

IN TOWN. 

The poker chips, a sporting gent and a girl with a merry 

eye 
Will throw a cowman back on the range before three days 

go by. 

THE LIFE. 

Oh, loway's all right enough, and quiet and safe, of 

course. 
But give me the West to live in, on the back of a lively 

Horse. 

THE RANGES. 

The ranges are now the ranches, and it's sheep and bare- 
ness and wire. 

Don't ever go near Black Butte again. It's as bare as a 
prairie fire. 

41 



THE GAME OF THE RANGES. 

In spite of all the booming it will never seem the same, 
And the devil take a country that hasn't any game. 

THE OLD DAYS. 

It was money and whiskey and poker, and women, and 

guns at the last. 
And logs and canvas and cattle, — ^too bad it is all in the 

Past. 

THE BUFFALO. 

We went at the millions outrageous, thinking they always 
would stay, 

And before we knew we were wicked, they totally van- 
ished away. 

SAGE-BRUSH. 

Gray like the dust, and seedy, crooked and smelly and 
tough. 

Worthless for stock or for humans, — but I love the in- 
fernal stuff! 

THE ANTELOPE. 

The rifles and greedy old game-hogs, the barbed wire 

fences and snow — 
I shore hate most awful to lose him, but I guess that he's 

bound to go. 



42 



THE LINE-RIDERS 

Remarks by Cheyenne Jim, Cow-Puncher, Recorded by 
the Tenderfoot. 

Time: December 15, an hour after sundown. 

Scene: A stone shack, on Sand Creek, Montana, at the edge of 
the LU — bar cattle range. 

Temperature: 15 degrees below zero. 

Wind: Northwest, seventy miles an hour. 

Within, a cowboy; table, an open fire-place, Dutch oven, lamp, 
guns, and part of a saddle of venison. 

Door opens C, and Cheyenne Jim enters, hurriedly. 



^I^ELL, pardner! Here's a rough old night! 
^^ This storm has come to stay. 
I thought until I saw yer light 
I'd shorely blow away. 

It's dark, and bitter cold, outside. 

The wind cuts like a knife. 
I never had a tougher ride 
Than that in all my life! 



Just hear the wind roar through them trees, 

And see the snow fly straight ! 
I'm powerful 'fraid our stock will freeze 

If this storm don't abate. 



Say, pard! A roarin' fire feels good, 
' Between two days of storm. 
Don't spare them chunks ! Pile on the wood ! 
Let's keep the old shack warm. 



43 



Grub's ready? Well then, serve and cut; 

Let's see how eatin' feels. 
I'm hungry as a kyote slut 

With ten pups at her heels. 



What's this? Some roasted black-tail deer? 

Say! PTasiz'i that a shot ! 
The snow is drivin' 'em down here; 

We'll get more, like as not. 



You bet I'll take more coffee, pard; 

It warms ye through and through. 
Yer sour-dough bread just hits me hard, 

And suits our syrup, too. 



An awful night? Well, I should shout. 

It's comin' fast and thick. 
Say! do you mind when we laid out 

That night on Lodge-Pole Crick? 



Why, anybody lost like that 

Tonight would freeze while roaming. 
/ wouldn't lay out on that flat 

Tonight for all Wyoming! 

(A faint cry is heard.) 

Htish! Did ye hear that? Seemed to me 

/ heard a faint "Hello." 
No? Listen sharp now, It might be 

Some trick of wind, or snow. 

44 



(Two distant shots are heard.) 

Two shots! There! Ye shore heard that! 
Some puncher's missed the trail, 
And gone a-wandering on the flat, 
Plumb rattled by the gale! 

Quick! Run outside and fire a shot, 

To let him know we hear him. 
'Twill brace the poor cuss up a lot 

To know that help is near him. 

(Tivo more shots are heard.) 

Come! We must saddle double quick, 

And steer a course by sound. 
The snow is drivin' fearful thick, 

But that chap must be found ! 

{They seize clothing and rush out into the storm.) 



{Silence.) 

(Stout-hearted men are they who hold 
The Wild West in subjection, 

And like the mail-clad knights of old 
Give their rough world protection.) 

{Silence.) 



{Voices and confusion, without.) 

Whoa! Here we are! You take him. Jack, 

And I'll take his cayuse, 
You fellows go right in the shack 
And fire up like the deuce. 

45 



(Stamping is heard, and hissing sounds.) 

Well, stranger! Gettin' most thawed out? 

Then draw up to the table. 
Oh, no! Your hawse ain't standin' out; 

I put him in the stable. 

We saved yer life? Wel-1, may be so. 
This storm does beat the Dutch; 
— But as fer facin' ivind and snow. 
Why, hell ! That's nothin' much ! 



46 



THE GAMELESS WEST 

GOLD sweeps the wind across the bleak divides 
And whistles through the sage-brush in the draws. 
Above the sea of hills the clouds fly low, 
And on their leaden wings bear sleet and snow. 
The horseman shrinks and shivers as he rides, 
But dares not pause. 



Behold, how vast an ocean rolls away 

Toward every point from this high vantage ground. 
Here, coulees drear ; and yonder, Bad Lands vast. 
Hacked, gouged and seamed by storms of ages past ; 
Iron-sided buttes, ravines of barren clay, 
And gloom profound. 



No living thing in sight, no creature near 
To break the desolation of the scene. 

The black-tailed deer have fled before the gun. 
The antelope were slaughtered, one by one. 
The last lone wolf lies crouched in hungry fear 
In yon ravine. 



Ha ! What is That, that rises from the ground 
Down yonder Coulee, close beside the trail? 
'Tis white and ghostlike, — and yet black, also ! 
'Tis but the carcass of a buffalo 
The bone-collectors missed on their last round, 
Bleaching and stale. 



Tight to the skull the long, brown frontlet clings, 
The last lone scalp-lock of a vanished race. 

47 



The lonesome ranges know the herds no more; 
Dead silence reigns where once wild life galore 
Gave every landscape groups of living things 
For man to chase. 



Bleak, cheerless, cold and dead, the empty land 
Frowns grimly 'round for endless, tiresome miles. 
Over my soul this desolation vast 
Hangs like a pall around a coffin cast. 
Sullen and silent. Nature seems to stand 
Devoid of smiles. 



All birds, all beasts, and even snakes are dead; 
All trees, and even bleaching bones are gone. 
The hand of man has swept the pastures bare. 
And only deigned to leave the earth and air. 



The shivering horseman lower bends his head, 
And hurries on. 



48 



HIS GOLDEN DAYS 

To Theodore Roosevelt, 
June 22, 1910. 

Ho, bring ye wood for a white man's fire, 
And sit in the glow of your heart's desire; 
For, look you! A Camper has come from afar. 
From the Days that Were to the Days that Are. 

H TOAST to the "Ranchman" of Chimney Butte, 
By the Little Missouri's flood, 
Where he won his spurs in his "Hunting Trips," 

As a genuine sportsman should. 
We have stalked with him for the wary deer, 

We have galloped through driving rains; 
We have felt with him, on the prong-buck's trail. 
The mystic spell of the The Plains, 

We drink to the "Wilderness Hunter's" pursuit. 

As his bull elk speeds through the snow. 
Where the Big Horn Range looms high ahead, 

And his camp lies hidden below. 
Oh, we trailed with him o'er the grizzly's ground 

As we sought out Ephraim's lair, 
And we crouched behind the Man with-a-Gun 

When he wakened that sleeping bear. 



A health, boys all, to the Hunter of Sheep 
As he climbs to the mountain's crest, 

And the trophy falls to the slide-rock rough, 
— As 'twas done in the Once-Wild West, 

The white goats were his; and with terrible toil 
Came the Kootenay caribou; 



49 



But with pencil and paper he gave them away 
To the world, to me, and to you. 

Oh, here's to the Hunter who rides to the Hounds, 

On the trail of the wolf and the bear ! 
On the wings of the wind he is carried along 

As the cougar is rushed to his lair. 
With whoop and halloo the chase dashes on, 

And it's gone, in the wink of an eye, — 
The quarry, the dogs and the rough-riding rout, 

Ere we give them "good-day" and "good-bye." 

With a holding of breath as we gaze o'er the veldt. 

We see a safari trail out. 
Now, Heaven be kind to the Camp-Firer bold 

And give him safe conduct en route ! 
The great cyclorama of African game 

Now rises, and circles around. 
Till the landscape is garnished with heads and with 
horns, 

And a thousand hoofs hammer the ground. 



In this garden of game, and of hunting for sport, 

Lo ! the red gods a miracle knew ; 
For the Sportsman dissolved on the African screen, 

And the Scientist loomed into view. 
Then the beasts that no longer were shot "to kill Time," 

Were amazed; but at last became wise; 
When a hundred or more gladly laid down and died, 

And others fell dead with surprise. 



In temples of Science his trophies are shown ; 
The field-work is over and done. 



50 



Our Camper comes back to the land of his own, 

The land that is second to none. 
Long life to our Guest ! More wood for his fire ! 

His sportsmanship holds us in thrall. 
He is first in the chase, the first to conserve. 

And the first in the hearts of us all. 



51 




H = 

a: s 

Q S 

Z S 

o t 

E -^ 

H c 



THE SONORAN DESERT 
To D. T. McD. 

(•'"T^OW, after three months on the desert 
•^—5 You will love it or loathe it," said Dan. 

And after half that in Sonora 
I bow to that far-seeing man. 



The maxim he gave me I cherish, 

Because it is thoroughly true. 
In reply ta his challenge I answer : 

*T surely and certainly do." 

It was Danny who taught me the desert, 
With gentle and consummate art. 

I wish that you also might have him 
To show you the way to its heart. 

We will put on a reel from Sonora 

And go to a wild wonderland. 
And south Arizona will show you 

A desert without any sand. 

The valleys are level and cheerful, 
The mountains are sudden and steep. 

The cacti will fill you with wonder, 
And also with spines, till you weep. 

The mesquite will shade you at luncheon, 
— Though thinly, we're bound to admit. 

We love the pale-green palo verde. 
But its shade is decidedly nit. 

53 



The creosote bush fills the valleys, 
Too bitter for beast or for man. 

It shelters the quail and the coyote 
And holds to its uniform plan. 

With joy we behold the sawarro, 

Of cacti the giant for fair. 
It squares the long trip to Sonora 

To see it loom high in the air. 

And here is the queer ocatilla. 

Its leaves quickly turn into thorns. 
It stands for no worth economic, 

But the desert it strangely adorns. 

Beware of the choyas wide spreading; 

Their millions of spines are a curse. 
To victims who touch them unheeding 

The world seems to stop and reverse. 

Hold fast to your canteen and compass ; 

All distance is more than you think. 
But if you get lost and dead thirsty, 

Bisnaga will give you a drink. 

The desert is fine in November; 

In May it is lovely to see. 
But from its hot breath in midsummer. 

Good Lord, please eliminate me! 



54 



THE CAMP-FIRE SONG 

^T<HEN the evening shadows close 

^^A/ Round the wild deer as he goes, 
And the tell-tale tracks no longer lead the way. 

As the gleams of sunset fail 

Halt we close beside the trail 
While our camp-fire weds the darkness to the day. 

Then we'll pile on pine and spruce, 

Mesquite roots and sagebrush loose, 
Dead bamboo and smelly teak of heart's desire, 

And with fagots blazing bright 

Burn a hole into the night 
While we toast a hunter's fare before the fire. 



Chorus : 

Then we'll gather 'round the Camp-Fire, 

When the shades of night draw down. 
And the world without is growing cold and drear; 

Somewhere in its ruddy glow 

There's a place for me, I know. 
And a hand to give me welcome and good cheer. 



We have had our days of sport 

Of the brave and jolly sort: 
We have bagged our deer, and elk, and grizzly bear; 

We have panted up to sheep 

O'er the slide-rock rough and steep, 
And we've banged it to the tiger in his lair ! 

Oh, we've yanked the salmon out, 

We have reeled the rainbow trout, 

55 



And we've hauled the hungry bluefish from the brine; 

We know hunting grounds galore, 

But we'll bag our game once more 
By the camp-fire that is always yours and mine. 

When the trails of Life grow rough, 

When man's tenderness grows tough, 
And the rifle useless hangs upon the wall, 

We will wander in our dreams 

To the forests and the streams 
Where in youth the chase and conquest led us all. 

When we weary of the strife 

That besets the busy life, 
'Tis the wilderness that answers to our call ; 

And when hunting days are done 

We'll foregather, every one, 
'Round the camp-fire that makes comrades of us all. 



56 



WILD LIFE 




THE CRAGMASTER 
Upon the ledge I tread serene, no foot dares follow me. 
For I am master of the crags, and march above the scree. 



THE CRAGMASTER 



a PON my pastures in the sky, no feet but mine have 
trod. 
These cloud-kissed fields are truly called the meadow- 
lands of God. 
The world below looks small to me, I scorn its puny men ; 
Its trifling joys and puzzling woes are far beyond my 
ken. 



I love the sweep of flying clouds, the hush of falling snow. 
From treeless heights I calmly watch the seasons come 

and go. 
The eagle soars beside my path upon the narrow ledge, 
I look down on the mountain sheep from lofty rimrock 

edge. 



On dizzy ledge of mountain wall, above the timber-line, 
I hear the riven slide-rock fall toward the stunted pine. 
Upon the paths I tread secure, no foot dares follow me. 
For I am master of the crags, and march above the scree. 



The mountain lion loves me not; the wolf keeps off my 

grass ; 
The patch is scant, my horns are sharp, the grizzly lets 

me pass. 
I'm owner of the crags and peaks, in peace I dwell up 

here; 
Except the rushing avalanche I have no foes to fear. 



59 



I love a ledge across a cliff, a restful mountain wall ; 
To me no precipice is steep, no mountain peak seems tall. 
Upon the ledge I tread serene, no foot dares follow me. 
For I am master of the crags, and march above the scree. 



60 



THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN SHEEP* 

I. His Home. 

a ROUND the mountains frowning crest, 
Where Hnes of rugged rock stand forth, 
Where Nature bravely bares her breast 

To snowy whirlwinds from the north ; 
High in the clouds and mountain storms, 
Where first the autumn snows appear, 
Where last the breath of springtime warms, 
There dwells my gallant mountaineer. 



Perched high on dizzy battlement, 

He proudly views his wild domain. 
Below his feet with swift descent 

The peak sweeps downward to the plain. 
Like terraces the rocky walls 

Stretch far across the steep incline ; 
The slopes between, where slide-rock falls 

Give grudging foothold to the pine. 



Three thousand giddy feet below. 

The map-like valley lies revealed ! 
The fettered stream bends to and fro, 

Its voice in icy silence sealed. 
That speck of dingy white down there. 

Just where the two streams come together,- 
Behold ! A hunter's canvas lair ! 

A Sibley tent, for winter weather. 



^Copyright 1898 by Recreation Magazine. 

61 



Upon the mountain's rolling crest, 

Half circled 'round by pines and cedars, 
Stand open parks and meadows, dressed 

With choicest grass for sturdy feeders. 
These are the pastures for the flocks 

That knife-made ear-marks never bear; 
Whose only fold is Nature's rocks, 

Above the mountain lion's lair. 



II. His Neighbors. 

The mountain lamb, so small and gray. 

Is cradled in the snow, 
On rocky ledge, hid far away 
Where Mother Ewe guards night and day 

Against each hungry foe. 

The golden eagle soaring high 

Marks well the lambkin small. 
He scans the flock with eager eye 
When wounded sheep lie down to die, 
And tears them where they fall. 

The gaunt coyote skulks below ; 

No mutton falls to him. 
But with the Big-Horn dwells a foe 
Who stalks him through the drifted snow, 

— The mountain lion grim. 

The shaggy grizzly plods along 

And seeks his humble fare. 
To him the roots and grubs belong. 
And mountain rams are far too strong 

To suit a climbing bear. 

62 



The mountain grouse feed fat up here 

In peace around the sheep. 
The snow-shoe rabbit feels no fear 
Beside my gallant mountaineer 

Upon the rocky steep. 

The Clark's crow flits with rasping cry 

Among the stunted cedars. 
The raven slow goes croaking by 
To join the meddlesome magpie, 

And feast with unclean feeders. 



III. His Fate. 

"Look! A Something is climbing our mountain; 

It seems but a speck, far below. 
It has paused at our half-frozen fountain 

To look at our tracks in the snow." 



"It is gray ; but it can't be a grizzly, 
Though surely 'tis something to shun. 

It is high, and its head is all frizzly. 
Ha! It may be the Man-with-a-Gun !" 

"Let's be moving ! Keep close to your leader. 

And scamper to loftier crags. 
Quick! The Mother Ewe, — follow and heed her. 

And see that no careless lamb lags." 



"There ! In safety once more we are hidden ; 
Now paw through the snow for your grass. 

63 



Here we fear not that strangers unbidden 
Will on these high meadows trespass." 



(A Shape rises.) 

"Ho! My flock! A stranger! A stranger! 
— Behind yonder snow-laden pine! 

(Bang!) 

I am shot! Quick! Fly from the danger! 
Dash down by the nearest incline !" 



He fell, through a distance appalling, 
Far down to the slide-rock below. 

Three hundred feet, plunging and rolling, 
And landed stone dead in the snow. 



At sunset the hunter there found him, 
Five miles from a tent or a bed ; 

But he camped with a sheep-skin around him. 
And dreamed of a world-record head. 



64 



THE FATE OF THE BIRDS 

6ACH year the mother of the birds flies far to make 
her nest, 
Long time she broods, and feeds her young, and fends 

them where they rest. 
In one long year she rears a brood, as gun-food for a 

day, 
But mothers can not breed and rear as fast as Man can 
slay. 



At morn the cheerful hunter wakes and blithely loads 

his gun 
To seek the wild things of the wood and shoot them one 

by one. 
He thinks the game will always last, enough his bag to 

fill, 
But Nature can not rear her young as fast as Man can 

kill. 



At noon the market-gunner halts to gather in his game, 
To kill the cripples on the shore and count the wage of 

shame. 
He grieves to find ducks growing scarce, and paltry is 

his loot. 
For Nature can not breed the birds as fast an Man can 

shoot. 



At night the sportsman sadly leaves his cold and duck- 
less blind, 

With nothing in his yawning bag, and gloomy thoughts 
in mind. 

65 



He finds the game is dead and gone, forever and a day; 
For Nature can not breed the birds as fast as Man can 
slay. 

All day the egrets shriek and fall upon the muddy shore, 
All day the starving nestlings call for food that comes 

no more. 
And still the loot of death is worn in Woman's wicked 

way, 
For egrets can not rear their young when hunters come 
and slay. 

When Winter bids the birds go south, and closes up the 

runs. 
One frightened nestling flies alone the gauntlet of the 

guns. 
The line of bird migration straight to extirpation leads, 
For Man, the Fool, destroys wild life far faster than it 

breeds. 



66 



ROBBED* 

OH, where is the game, daddy, where is the game 
That you hunted when you were a boy? 
You've told me a lot of the game that you shot ; 

No wonder such sport gave you joy. 
I'm old enough now to handle a gun; 

Let me be a good sportsman, too, 
I'd like a fair share of clean outdoor fun, 
And I wish to shoot, just like you. 



But where are the birds, daddy? Where are the birds? 

I can't put them up anywhere! 
You had your good sport with the wild flocks and herds, 

— And surely you saved me a share. 
And where is the big game that roamed around here 

When grandfather came here with you? 
I don't see one antelope, bison or deer! 

Didn't grandfather save me a few? 



Why don't you speak up, dad, and show me some game? 

Now, why do you look far away? 
Your face is all red, with what looks like shame! 

Is there nothing at all you can say? 
What? The game is all gone? There is no hunting now? 

No game birds to shoot or to see? 
Then take back your gun ; I'll go back to the plow ; 

But oh ! daddy ! How could you rob me ! 



•Read at the organization dinner of the Minnesota Game Protec- 
tive League at Minneapolis, August 27, 1915, 



67 



WHEN THE BIRDS WENT AWAY 

or BUTCHER farmed in the down-trodden West, 
5-1 With a grouch beyond all words; 
And he hated the world with such bitter zest 
That he even swore at the birds ! 



He said : "These birds are a curse to me ! 

They would rob me of my bread. 
They eat my cherries and cumber the tree, 

And / tvish tliat they all ivere dead!" 

A woodpecker heard it and told a crow, 
(For the truth of this I can vouch). 

And the crow cawed out, both high and low, 
"Get away from the man-with-a-grouch !" 

The news of the wish flew from bill to bill. 
And the birds heard the curse in aifright. 

They gathered their flocks with unanimous will. 
And the whole of them vanished, by night! 

Next morning the cut-worm saluted the mole. 
And bade the corn-weevil good-day. 

The field-mouse awakened the villainous vole 
With the news that "The birds are away!" 



Then, my! How the insects, the rats and the mice 

Poured out for the doing of harm ! 
Ten million destroyers appeared in a trice. 

And they swarmed on the crops of that farm. 



69 



Aghast stood the farmer, with impotent hand, 

Appalled and dismayed beyond words. 
He had cursed and offended the Lord's chosen band, 

And lost his defenders, — the birds! 

Now the hopes of that farmer are riddled with holes. 

And his fortunes are gone to the bad. 
For the bugs and the mice, the rats and the voles 

Have eaten up all that he had. 



70 



THE ROBIN 
(May 4, 1906.) 

T^HROUGHOUT the long and dreary night 
^^ The sick man turned and tossed, 
And the patient, white-capped nurse fought on 
For the spark so nearly lost. 

Like a tortured soul in the Depths below 

That rests not, day nor night, 
The wide-eyed victim writhed with pain 

And wished for the morning's light. 



Midnight to one ; and two ; and three ; 

And half-past three brought four. 
In silence the sick-room pair worked on, 

But rest came nevermore. 



The living world grew still as death. 

And the silence smote the ear. 
The night grew black as the mouth of a pit, 

And Charon's boat drew near. 



But hark ! A sweet voice rises aloft 
And rings o'er the silent lawn. 

A burst of song from the maple top 

Cries, "Cheer up ! Cheer ! It is dawn !" 

A joyous robin salutes the light, 

"Cheer up! Cheer up! It is dawn!" 

And the dreariest, darkest hour of night 
Takes wing like an owl, and is gone. 



71 



"Cheer up ! Cheer up ! It is dawn !" he cries. 

"The gleams of the day I can see. 
The night is gone, and the world will wake. 

Take courage and hope from me!" 

The Nurse and the Man and the mastoid Case 

Then girded their loins anew, 
For the robin had given them heart of grace 

To fight the long nights through. 



Now the man who harms a robin forsooth 
As he wings or he sings on his tree, 

Is a shameless monster, in deed and truth, 
And he'll have to reckon with me. 



72 



THE MAMMOTH TELLS HIS STORY 
By Ward's Restoration. 

elGANTIC and proud, o'er the visiting crowd, 
A Mammoth loomed, hairy and vast. 
Incredibly tall, in that museum hall 
He stood like a Sphinx of the Past. 



With wonderful length from that mountain of strongth 

His tusks reached far into space. 
His trip-hammer feet were for him truly meet, 

But his legs lacked the outlines of grace. 



Quite awed by that Presence so mighty and strange. 

Fifty thousand years old if a day, 
A visitor, borne on his fancy's wide range, 

Saw visions three ages away. 



The visitor spoke, as a man to a friend : 

"Come, Spirit of Elephas! Come! 
Read thy riddle of Life, from beginning to end! 

Too long has thy trumpet been dumb." 



A resonant rumble boomed forth from that chest, 
And the visitor shrank back, appalled. 

A voice was expressed in that cavernous breast ; 
And 'twas plain that the bluff would be called. 



To that frivolous man the Mammoth began 
A story ten thousand years old. 



73 



We were thrilled and astounded, and wholly confounded 
By this yarn that old Elephas told : — 



"Long ages ago I was born in the snow, 
On a glacier that stretched far and wide. 

O'er Alaska's bleak wastes when we mammoths were 
chased, 
I ran at my dam's hairy side. 



Our neighbors were few, and we very well knew 
That the cave men and wolves were our foes. 

Of that dangerous pack there was never a lack, 
For both follow the game as it goes. 

Of the mastodon rare we knew a fine pair, 
And the bison with wide-spreading horns. 

The giant brown bear was a resident there, 
— And the mountain he treads he adorns. 



At last in a stage of the glacial age, 
The ice and the storms and the snow 

Deeply buried our food and frosted our blood, 
And many a mammoth laid low. 

As the king of the herd my ambition was stirred 

To lead to some southerly place. 
Where a temperate clime would save me and mine 

From becoming the last of our race. 

To the southward we fled by an instinct that led 
Over glaciers and rugged moraines. 

74 



Over mountains we rushed, and through forest we pushed 
Till we came to delectable plains. 

Then the herd from the snows gladly paused for repose, 
While alone I marched on, farther south, 

Till at last I got lost on a treacherous coast. 
In a burning hot desert of drouth. 



When tortured by thirst in that desert accurst, 

Lo! a pool of sweet water I found. 
With a welcoming roar I swung to its shore 

And drank with a gusto profound. 

I drank to my fill ; then I paused and stood still, 

And surveyed a wild scene of despair. 
Deeply mired in mud was a horrible brood 

Of beasts that were perishing there. 

Many lions and bears had been bogged unawares, 

And sabre-toothed tigers galore. 
That blow-hole of hell was garnished right well 

With living and dead, by the score. 

That sea of black mud where I wearily stood 
Was too shallow for wild beasts to drown. 

Yet come first or last it held them all fast, 

— And behold! My own feet had gone down! 

With a bellow of fear I struggled to rear 
And withdraw my huge feet from the mire ; 

But that black pitch of hell had entrapped me so well 
That Death mocked my frantic desire. 

75 



In fear and in woe I lunged to and fro; 

I reeled; I tried plunging ahead; 
But from first hour to last my feet were held fast, 

And my fight only jostled the dead. 



In that desperate stage I roared in wild rage 

At the fate I foresaw was impending. 
At my bellowing thunder fierce wolves came in wonder 

To a feast that seemed surely unending. 



Thus I finally sank in that horrible tank, 
And the pitch gathered hold of my side. 

The great wallow I made only faintly portrayed 
The struggles I made ere I died. 



Then came the wild beasts to the greatest of feasts. 
Calling all that La Brea could bewitch. 

They sprang on my side and they tore at my hide, 
— Till they, too, were caught by the pitch ! 



The pitch held us all in its merciless thrall 
While we wallowed and fought in its bed. 

And the wild beasts were piled in chaos most wild 
In that fatal black pool of the dead. 



For ages apace in that terrible place, 
With a mantle of earth overhead. 

We lay in that tomb, badly crowded for room, 
Till at last we were raised from the dead. 



76 



I find the world changed since the days when I ranged 

O'er the rough glacial ice of the north, 
But this hall suits me well, and here I will dwell 

Till the cave-men again drive me forth. 



77 




THE LAVA RAM 

'On a blasted hilltop you stand alone; Hills and valleys of scowling stone. 

Black is the landscape around; With never a foot of ground." 



THE LAVA RAM 

On the Pinacate Mountain Slope, N. W. Mexico. 

OUT of the lava I saw you rise, 
A lean, bold figure in brown. 
You gaze at me in calm surprise, 
And the red-hot sun beats down. 

On a blasted hill-top you stand alone ; 

Black is the landscape around ; 
Hills and valleys of scowling stone, 

With never a foot of ground. 

My feet are lame and my lungs are hot, 
And the glare makes my brain feel queer; 

But you, ye divil, you mind it not, 

And you live here throughout the year. 

Tell me, ye Sphinx with the curhng horns. 

What food does the choya bear? 
When every plant has a million thorns. 

What is your daily fare? 

Can ye chew bisnagas to quench your thirst? 

Is the brittle-bush fit for food? 
Do you tackle the Bigelow choya accurst? 

And do nigger-head spines taste good? 

Where do you drink when the tanks are dry, 
And these mountains are sissing hot? 

Now, just 'twixt friends, won't you tell me why 
You love this infernal spot? 

79 



No wonder your size is below the mark, 
And your limbs are slender and lean. 

No wonder your hair is so short and stark. 
It's because your fare is so mean. 

But your horns, old Ram, are massive enough. 
And as long as they ought to be. 

The heat has made them uncommonly rough, 
But their size is sufficient for me. 



Bold Sheep of the Lava, the last and the first, 

I give you my hearty salaams. 
Defiant of grilling, and hunger and thirst. 

You are surely the toughest of rams. 



80 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 



BEFORE HER PORTRAIT 

GER face lives on the canvias yet; 
Her love lives in my heart. 
If pigments cold 
Her form can hold, 
Why should her soul depart? 



See how those dear eyes look at me, 
With love still glad and new. 

A little while 

And she will smile, 
Just as she used to do. 



Why, I can almost hear her laugh 
That sweet, caressing tone! 

Ah me! I know 

When she laughed so 
It welled from love alone. 



How beautiful that supple form ! 
How goddess-like that head ! 

That queenly air 

And face so fair 
Revealed the thoroughbred! 



There from the canvas, year by year, 
Constant as paint can be. 
From morn till night, 
With royal right 
My queen looks down on me. 



83 



I wonder how it came to pass, 
When she was fancy free, 
With crowds of men 
Around her then. 
She ever fancied me ! 



"Frou-frou! Pit-pat!" Ah, there she is! 
My queen comes gliding in. 
What will I hear 
Now, from my dear? 



"Why, love! Where have you been?" 



84 



THE OPERATION 
To W. E. C. 



©ESIDE a dark and unknown sea, 
Where ends all earthly strife, 
I paused awhile, uncertainly, 
And looked far back, on Life. 



I saw the false gods and the true, 
The graves before the goal ; 

The glory-bubble's rainbow hue, 
The mirage of the soul. 



The giddy world sank out of sight. 

And silent darkness came; 
But through the gloaming shone the light 

Of Life's immortal flame. 



"Give me," thought I, "the constant friend 
Whose leal bounds Time and Space ; 

Whose hands hold back the awesome End," 
— And then, — / saw thy face! 



85 



LINES TO A LADY 
Sent with a bottle of attar of roses. 



OEAR lady fair, 
Should you declare 
This gift was wrongly sent, 
I will protest 
You have not guessed 
The hidden sentiment. 



Along with those 

Who paint the rose 
And decorate the lily. 

Oh, lady dear, 

I greatly fear 
You'll place me, willy nilly. 



If what I send 
Should you offend, 

I beg you to remember, 
"Sweets to the sweet" 
Are surely meet. 

In June or in December! 



86 



TO G. B. G. 

(September 7, 1896.) 



ERIEND of the gentle spirit, 
Sore needed here on earth, 
What token can I send thee 
That will not mock thy worth? 



The fairest, sweetest flowers 
Are all too poor for thee. 

And all our words of sorrow 
Seem hollow mockery. 



Dear Friend, I do not yield thee ; 

I will not say, "Farewell !" 
In my heart's sanctuary 

Thou wilt forever dwell. 



87 



TO H. R. H. 

On her IQth birthday. 



OEAR lassie of the golden heart, 
No lines of mine can tell 
The everlasting joy thou art 
To our soul's inmost cell. 



No verse can justly tell the tale 
Of half thy worth to me. 

My halting muse would surely fail 
To set the story free. 



No measured words ere can convey 
From out this mental whirl, 

The pride and joy we feel today, 
In thee, our peerless girl. 



ADIEU TO SKIBO CASTLE 

Dornoch Firth, at ebb tide. 

a CROSS fair Dornoch's waters wide 
Grand Skibo meets the view. 
My spirits ebb, like Dornoch's tide; 
This is indeed adieu. 



Yonder, the friendly open hands 
Within the open door. 

Here, Duty voices her commands 
And bids me wake once more. 



Shine fair, Oh! Sun, on Skibo's walls! 

Fall soft. Oh! pleasant rain! 
Send life and joy to fill the halls 

That joy send forth amain. 



Back to the busy world once more ; 

Take up its tasks anew. 
Fair Skibo on the distant shore 

Fades in dissolving view. 



89 



THE FORGET-ME-NOT 

HE gave me a forget-me-not 
The day I sailed away, 
And said, "Whatever be thy lot. 
Remember me, I pray." 

And I gave her a myrtle spray. 
And said, "This is for thee 

To keep when I am far away 
Beyond the rolling sea." 

Her blue forget-me-not I keep 
O'er leagues of land and sea. 

And always when I wake, or sleep. 
It whispers, "Hope," to me. 



That talisman so near my heart 
Oft cheers my lonely hours. 

And I will never from it part, 
This dearest of all flowers. 



90 



HER TREASURE SHIP 
Promises cut in the bark of a barren Christnms Tree. 

OH, wait till my ship comes in, Dear Heart, 
As come she must ere long. 
Her canvas is set, 
Her scuppers are wet. 
And the breezes are steady and strong. 

Her cargo is ample, and rich and rare, 

Her captain is skillful and true. 
Her name is The Love, 
And her treasure trove 

Is wholly consigned to You ! 

Just wait till she ties up fast to the dock, 

And opens her hatches to me. 
You'll have presents galore, 
Such as never before 

Have hung on a Christmas tree. 

Stowed snug in her hold is a chest full of gold, 
Pearls, sapphires and gatherings rare. 

There are bundles of joys 

For our dear girls and boys, 
And my heart's desire is there. 

Be down at the landing and hasten aboard 

The moment her sails are furled, 
For her manifest 
Is plainly addressed, 

"To the Dearest Wife in the World !" 

91 




1^ 



o H 
X 



» -a 



« ^ 



THE COMRADE FIRE 

nERE all alone in the forest wide 
I will build me a comrade fire. 
Hoping its gleams will lead to my side 
The friends of my heart's desire. 

The blaze of the match makes the blaze of the bark, 

And the bark sets the twigs aflame. 
The glow of the fire builds a dome in the dark, 

And startles the sleeping game. 

Come, friend, come to my temple of trees 
Where I hearken the long night through. 

Soft is the sigh of the tree-top's breeze, 
But sweeter the voice of you. 



I am fond of this forest primeval — and drear ; 

I love its dead silence — and gloom. 
Oh, no ! I'm not lonesome, or chilly with fear, 

— But there is too much vacant room ! 



Now, what do I see in yon long shadow dim 
That seems to be seeking a place? 

I swear 'tis the astral of old Cheyenne Jim, 
With that same cheerful smile on his face. 



Jimmy, old man ! I'm glad you have come ! 

Your bed must be chilly, out West. 
Wherever we meet we can call it our home. 

Come, sit by my fire, and rest. 

93 



Ah ! great were the days on the buffalo plains 

When we hunted and tented together. 
The world then was ours, we pooled all our gains, 

And we laughed at the wind and the weather. 

By jove! There is Charlie! And hail to you. Jack! 

Just in from the mountains we love? 
Ah! There is the Shade of beloved old Mack; 

But the old hero's cHmbed up above. 

Mack! Have you gone to an Eden of game, 

Where grizzlies are easily found? 
Are there plenty of hungers, and billies so tame 

That they fairly encumber the ground? 

Look, Jimmy! My naked old Vera is there! 

His brown skin is shining with sweat. 
Salaam, there, old fellow! Yes; twist up your hair. 

I see you remember me yet. 

But gone are the elephants. Vera, they say, 

And vanished the arni herds, too. 
They've built a dull Club, and forgotten the day 

When I tracked down a tiger with you. 

Now, Jim, who is that who salaams over there? 

Why, that is the very old scamp 
Who lost me one night in the Wynaad, for fair, 

And I led him safely to camp. 

Old fellow, you scared me a-plenty that night 
In that grassy and tigerish lair. 

94 



And you, — I can swear you were very near white 
When you threw up your hands in despair. 



Oh, comrades, I give you my hand and good cheer ; 

I will shield you from hunger and weather. 
I'm lonesome no more ; I will sleep without fear, 

As I did when we hunted together. 



95 



NONSENSE VERSES 



ON THE MENU CARD 

At a dinner of the Camp-Fir e Club. 

^< HOUGH far and away will the bold hunter stray, 
^^ Though joyous the trend of his tramp, 
Like needle to pole, his innermost soul 
Points back to the permanent camp. 



Now the whisper of pine is all very fine. 
And the babble of brook is quite neat. 

But the voice of a friend whom I cherish no end, 
Is dearer to me when I eat. 



When the daylight has fled, and the trophy, all red. 

Is won at the end of the trail. 
By the camp-fire's bright flame we will hang up our game, 

— And thereby hangs many a tale. 

But when camp-fire tales are smiting the gales. 
And the pelt from Plain Truth has been skinned, 

Bear in mind that a yarn, like a hide on a barn, 
Should not be too long in the wind. 



99 



THE TALKING DOLL 

X'M a little Siouxsie dolly, all the way from Wounded 
Knee, 
Where the teepees stand among the trees and smoke; 
But I can't abide pappooses, for I fail to see their uses, 
So a jolly cowboy took me, for a joke. 



Oh ! I love that cowboy well. 

Better than my tongue can tell, 
And for days I've longed to sit upon his knee, 

Even though I am a Sioux, 

He will find my heart is true 
If he'll only love a buckskin doll like me! 



On the outside I'm all buckskin, Injun tan and creamy 
white, 
But my face looks like a Flathead kid I know ; 
And this mass of long black hair that I swell with pride 
to wear 
Was once stolen from a robe of buffalo. 



Now, I fear those Sioux pappooses. 

For I know that their abuses 
Would most quickly make my ruin quite complete. 

They would rip my back wide open. 

And would scalp my head, a-hopin' 
They would find within me something they could eat! 



There are times when I am worried, 
'Cause my toilet was so hurried. 
And I wonder if my leggings set just right! 



101 



But my breast is full of hope, 
And with hair of antelope, 
So perhaps that's why my heart is now so light. 

So I've drifted down to Mandan 

Holding fast my cowboy's hand, and 
I hope I'll have no more of Wounded Knee. 

I've no strings to Cowboy Billy, 

And I know I'm aw-ful sil-ly, — 
But I hope some day he'll be attached to me! 



102 



COMING HOME FROM EUROPE 

By the Boy and the Girl, 1908. 

WAY from the land of the great Itching Palm, 
With shoeless and stockingless feet, 
Bereft of our garments, and shiftless for fair, 
We fly for the home that is sweet. 

From the Clyde to the Tiber we showed our veneer, 

And scattered our newly-found wealth ; 
But Napoli found us as you see us here,* 

— And we boarded a steamer by stealth. 

Oh, England! If Memory sticks to her job 

We'll never forget your good times; 
Albeit when leaving we dropped twenty bob 

To 'elp out the waiges of Jimes. 

In Paree we all parley-vood our Frongsay, 

And saw all you say you have seen. 
We gave up good coin in the dear Bone Marshay, 

For merci, bocoo and trays bean. 

On the Netherland flats, where green tourists are sold, 

We skipped o'er the dykes and the dams. 
Till the grafters came down, like the locusts of old, 

And we fled from those millions of palms. 

To Berlin we came in the course of our flight. 
Where the bold Teuton toots at his ease ; 



*See "The Coming Storm." 

103 



But Ruin came down like a thief in the night, 
For the f rowhne, she stole our chemise ! 

On bleak Alpine glaciers we shivered and shook, 
— But we "Ohed" and we "Ahed" at the peaks. 

We "circled" and "tripped" into every old nook, 
— Just as Mother once squandered six weeks. 

In Berlin the Girl lost her very best nightie; 

In Paree we both lost our wealth ; 
In Venice she looked like a new Aphrodite ; 

In Florence the Boy lost his health. 

Back ! Back to the woods of fair Sken-neck-ta-dee 

We are flying for all we are worth ! 
Give us back, p. d. q., the dear old G. E., 

And the jolly old land of our birth. 



104 



THE GIFT HORSE 

To His Honor, the Mayor, at the City Hall, anent the offer 

of a new Zoological Park for New 

York City, A. D. 1898. 

OUR Honor, a Gift Horse is led to your door; 
The Zoo people warrant him gentle and sound. 
His pedigree no one can flout or ignore, 
And a finer young animal cannot be found. 



Your pastures are ample, but barren of flocks; 

Your springs and your streams quench no wild crea- 
tures' thirst, 
Not even a rabbit inhabits your rocks; 
Your parks are as lifeless as Aden accurst. 
***** 

Yes, truly you need him; and here I fortell 
Another like him will not come to your hand. 

You have only to promise to pasture him well, 
And, halter and all, he is yours to command. 



Yes, he will be ridden, year in and year out ; 

A multitude waits for a chance at his back. 
That he'll pay for his keep, there's no manner of doubt. 

And for riders and masters he never will lack. 



You surely remember a certain droll squire. 
Who never was known in dry wisdom to falter. 

This saw of wise Sancho fits public desire: — 

"When a heifer is given thee, haste with the halter!' 



105 



INNOMINATA 



A SALAAM TO AN AUTHOR 
To Col. John S. Wise, after reading his "Diomed." 

(piREATHES there a man, or eke a boy, 
"^^ With soul so dry and dead, 
He is not filled with honest joy 
By jolly "Diomed?" 



Of dull "Memoirs" there is no dearth; 

No lack of "Lives" profound. 
Nor hoary "Recollections," worth 

At least two cents a pound. 

From out the ruck of common truck 

That doth my brain befog. 
With joy I hail this lively tale 

Of a clean and honest Dog. 

Once more I whistle up my Youth, 

And don my shooting togs. 
And sally forth to hunt, good sooth, 

Behind thy gallant dogs. 

Once more I feel the autumn breeze 
Blow fresh o'er fields of stubble. 

Once more I hail the grouse and quail 
And say "So long!" to trouble. 

Let him whose blood is coursing slow. 
Who wears "that troubled look," 

Let him who would a dog's thoughts know, 
Go straight and read thy book. 



109 



Skilled was the hand that held the pen, 

And half inspired, I swear. 
Which gave the world of dogless men 

A canine soul laid bare. 



Friend Wise, I give thee my salaams, 
And blessings on thy head. 

That I can grip between my palms 
Immortal "Diomed." 



110 




BACK TO BORNEO 

'A taste of an India curry, the smell of a sandal-wood fan, 
And lo ! I am back in my juntfle, a buoyant and fresh yountf man." 



BACK TO BORNEO 

fll TASTE of an India curry, the smell of a sandal- 
3—1 wood fan, 

And lo! I am back in my jungle, a buoyant and 
fresh young man. 
Puck's girdle is beat to a frazzle as out to the East I go, 
Round half the world in a second, to wonderful Borneo. 



I rush up the Sadong River, borne on the bore of the tide. 
With my Malays tossed in a sampan, — a most foolhardy 

ride. 
Then near t6 a slippery landing where I hope I am yet 

well known 

Is a hut in the blooming hot-house of jungle I call my 
own. 



Sweet is the smell of that jungle, soothing its hot-house 

air, 
Rank and dank is the forest, with life all around to spare. 
The aged seem never extinguished but ever new life is 

begun, 
No wonder a Wise One has named it the Garden of the 

Sun. 



Once more will the red-haired orangs waken and go their 

ways 
From their leafy nests in the tree-tops, as they did in 

those other days. 
And with whistling wings the hornbills will go sailing 

overhead 
Beyond the reach of a 12-gauge and its modest pellets of 

lead. 

Ill 



In the hills where the long-armed gibbons worried me 
long ago 

I wonder if any Dyaks live there that I used to know. 

Will brown-skinned Hakka know me as I climb to that 
long-house door? 

Will he greet me now with "Tabet, tunan," as he smil- 
ingly did of yore ? 

And the argus pheasants we gathered ! How well I recall 
the day 

When we met a ridiculous sun-bear, barring our home- 
ward way. 

At duty's call I shot him, for I needed him on my rack, 

And Hakka carried the whole of him absurdly home on 
his back. 



Ah, me! It gives one a heart-ache to think so fearfully 
far 

To the Days that Were in the jungles, back from the Days 
that Are. 

For a sight and a smell of those forests my soul will con- 
tinue to yearn, 

Till my Borneo I again shall know, — when the days of 
my youth return. 



112 



THE WHISPERING PINE 

nALF way down the side of the Sunset Divide 
In view of the valley of Peace, 
There's a sturdy young pine that's exclusively mine, 

And beneath it my striving will cease. 
When I rest in its shade and its branches are swayed 

By the breezes that waft from the West, 
That evergreen tree softly whispers to me 
Of the memories locked in my breast. 



When I pillow my head on its pine-needle bed 

Wireless messages come to my tree. 
And its branches are stirred by the tender things heard 

And transmitted in whispers to me. 
My Ship, far at sea, sends a message to me, 

And I hear it once more, with a sigh, 
"Oh, be of good cheer, for your Fortune is here. 

And I'm coming to port, — by and by !" 



There are times when I hear with a sigh and a tear 

Sweet voices like wind-harps in tune. 
That softly implore from a far-distant shore, 

"Oh, Comrade! Come hitherward soon!" 
Then I see my young bride as she stood by my side 

In the little white church on the hill. 
She was queenly and sweet; all her charms were com- 
plete, 

And bless her ! she's young to me still ! 



When my days are far spent, and my bow is unbent, 
I will go to my evergreen tree, 

113 



And within its sweet shade my last bed shall be made, 
With my loved ones in close touch with me. 

As the years come and go those who miss me will know 
How their souls may hold converse with mine; 

For each message of love will be caught from above, 
And sent down by my whispering pine. 



114 



